Chapter Three
Seventeen Squared
Seventeen Squared
~~*~~
He walked in with a thick white envelope, sat at the table
after taking off his coat, and opened it.
Dublin —which they had just returned from
visiting. They had gone to Belfast
too, but decided against it almost before they drove into the city. They stayed
overnight at a cheap motel at its outskirts and in the morning hit the road.
Dublin . One bedroom. Half a bath. Nine
hundred square feet. Ninth floor. In the very bowels of the slums. No car.
Cashier at the petrol station five blocks away. Nine pounds fifty-fucking-five
per hour. Thirty hours a week.
“I love you,” she murmured, and began sobbing again.
Chapter Four
It was various
literature, pamphlets, and forms from the Debt Management people. They had
approved his and Lee’s application.
They would not be able to keep the home.
“Dublin it is, then.”
He sighed.
Lee’s mother had
financed the trip. She PayPal’d eight hundred quid into her account after
speaking to her two weeks ago. He took the time to speak to Mrs. Kelly after
they got back, and was surprised how civil she was.
“How’s she doing?”
“Depressed,” he
replied, glancing over his shoulder. Lee had walked into the kitchen to get
something to eat. “Thanks again, Mrs. Kelly.”
“Do you know the
number?”
“The honest one?
No. The one she tells me? Ninety-two.”
Lee walked out and
back into the bedroom, a bowl of peanuts in her grip.
“Could it be the
one she tells you and the honest one are one and the same this time?”
“Would you trust
that possibility, Mrs. Kelly?”
“Quinn was such an
enormous influence on her. He’s the one who taught her to drink. I told him not
to do it, but ... well, he never listened to me.”
“You told me he was
an alcoholic too.”
“He was a great
man. He was imperfect like the rest of us, just like you are. Don’t judge him,
Ronan.”
“I wouldn’t presume
to.”
“Ninety-two days
... well, that’s something, I suppose. And how is your job search going?”
He knew she
wouldn’t appreciate anything but the short answer. “Want ads, Craigslist, gassing
up and driving all over town, the Internet, calling friends. Nothing.”
It occurred to him
that he hadn’t shared that story with
her yet, and thought she might appreciate it.
“Oh, right. I
changed a tire for Karl Watson.”
She gasped. “Karl Watson? The Karl Watson?”
He chuckled. “The
very one.”
“Well, now, that
can’t be! A man of that wealth wouldn’t be driving around Hell’s Creation
without a butler or some such, would he! He’d probably have ten with him ready
to help with any contingency, not to mention armed security! He probably only
travels in convoys! I’m sure you didn’t help the Karl Watson!”
Ronan closed his
eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re probably right, Mrs. Kelly.
Hey—Lee’s in the bedroom, and I’m sure she wants to say hello. Shall I get her
for you?”
“Keep your chin up,
Ronan dear. I’m sure something is coming along soon enough.”
He knew statements
like that were Mrs. Kelly’s way of dismissing him, so he stood and walked into
the bedroom. Lee was at the computer. She had earphones on. He tapped her on
the shoulder and handed the cell to her. She glanced up at him with a Why is it my turn? look on her face,
took the earphones off, and put the cell against her right ear.
“Hi, Mom. How are
you?”
Eight months later
He bent over the kitchen sink and examined the wallpaper directly
behind it.
It was a stain of
some sort, barely visible even from this range. Someone had taken serious pains
to wipe as much of it away as he or she could.
A food stain would
make sense ... maybe.
He traced a finger
around it. It was a barely visible rust discoloration against the striping,
like someone had thrown tomatoes at it. He stopped tracing when he ran into
what looked like dried bits of whatever had been chucked between the wall and
the countertop. Coagulated bits.
He withdrew his
hand. So ... not tomato, then.
He went to the sink
and squeezed a generous puddle of dish soap into his hands and turned on the
water. It always came out a bit brown at first, and took at least half a minute
to warm up.
He didn’t wait. He lathered
up, rinsed the suds off, slammed the handle down in disgust, and yanked a
fistful of paper towel down from the dispenser just a couple feet to the right
of the stain.
This will be a good lesson for my children.
Always assume, kids, that the barely visible red stain in the kitchen that
you’ve traced with your index finger is not from tomatoes or any tomato-based product. Now who wants to read some Winnie-the-Pooh?
Eight months. Eight
bloody months.
Standing in a
neverending lake of fire in Hell sounded better.
But here he was.
And here was Lee too.
She was an
“associate” at the nearest Tesco a half-hour’s bus ride away. She wore a red vest
and greeted customers at the door. For the same wage. And twenty-five hours.
Fifty-five total
hours a week for nine pounds fifty-fucking five equaled five hundred
twenty-five and two fucking bits a week.
Rent on this
shithole was fifteen hundred a month—over seventy percent of their combined
take-home. They were eating rice and beans three nights a week and skipping
breakfast. No snacks. No cable television. They had to invest in a heating
blanket for the bed, because the window in their bedroom might as well have not
existed, just a fucking hole to the elements. They could actually feel the wind
when it blew, no matter the direction it came from.
Two weeks ago she
screamed as she showered. He burst in to check what was wrong. She gesticulated
wildly to the corner of the stall.
It was without
doubt the biggest cockroach he had ever seen—four inches long at least. He went
to smash it, but it zig-zagged like it had smoked crack into the kitchen and under
the counter.
At night they could
hear mice scurrying here and there. One morning they found their breakfast
cereal had been bitten into and scattered over the pantry shelf. With mouse
crap mixed into it.
Their neighbor was
a twenty-something drug dealer (they guessed) with a penchant for what sounded
like very painful sex.
“OHHHHH CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRIST! CHRISSSSSSST!
OUCH! HARDERHARDERHARDER YOU FECKIN’ TWAT OUCH BITCH YEAH BITE ME BITE ME BITE
MEEEEEE!”
They could hear the
sloppiness of it, like a frantic toilet plunger, and smell the meth that always
went with it, and feel the incessant rhythm, all of which never occurred at any
hour other than wholly indecent.
Lee found it funny.
He didn’t.
“Seventeen squared,”
she said one recent dismal morning.
“Seventeen ... what—?”
he began, and stopped. She was sitting across from him and smiling serenely,
which almost always meant trouble.
“Seventeen...?”
“Squared.”
“As in ... seventeen
to the second power?” He watched her carefully. “As in seventeen times seventeen?”
She nodded happily,
miserably.
He did the mental
math. “Two hundred ... eighty ... nine? Is that right?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Wow. Really?”
“It’s a record. At
least since I’ve been honestly counting.”
“Two hundred eighty-nine
days.”
She smiled wider.
It felt like a punch in his solar plexus.
Almost without
thinking, he reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Sober in hell for almost
four-fifths of a bloody year.” He shook his head in genuine disbelief. “How’s
that possible?”
Her eyes glassed over. “I honestly, honesty,
honestly don’t know, Ronan.”
“Good number, two eighty-nine.
Isn’t that biblical or something?”
“That’s one hundred
forty-four—as in thousand. The number of those saved on Judgment Day.”
“As sure as fuck we
could use saving.”
“I’m pretty sure
we’re one of the condemned,” she murmured, squeezing his hand, then taking it
in both of hers. “Like this flat should be.”
When he was a teenager, he worked at a petrol station. To
make his inheritance stretch as far as possible, he continued working at one
while at university.
It wasn’t hard
work, and often allowed for study time between customers. He rang them up and
sometimes did superficial repairs when the mechanics in the adjacent garage
were full up. They liked him and took him under their wing. He liked them back,
much more so than his classmates, who were too busy trying to puff themselves
up around each other. He came from a lower-income family than most of them, and
they knew it, and treated him like he was their inferior. His mechanic mates at
the Topaz never treated him like that. He was one of the boys, and he
appreciated it. Today, years later, he still kept in touch with Tony and Ian.
Both had long since married and had children. Tony was his best man, and Ian
had moved to Reykjavik , Iceland
Tony was still in Dublin , but had graduated
from being a car mechanic to selling them. He was an almost instant success, a
natural salesman. The last Ronan had heard, ol’ Ton’ had moved to Ranelagh in Dublin 6, a nice
upper-middle neighborhood.
He thought of
calling him, but couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. Lee, who knew Tony as well
and was close to him, had suggested it, too. But he just couldn’t.
“If I live to a thousand,
I won’t forgive myself,” she said. He had just come home and settled himself.
She handed him a grilled cheese sandwich and sat at the table next to him. She
had already eaten. It was late and he was knackered.
He gazed at her
between bites.
She had said that many times now—“If I live to
a thousand, I won’t forgive myself.” Countless times, especially in this
hell-hole. He’d learned that it was her way of saying that she was struggling
not to reach for a bottle.
He wiped his hand on
his pant leg and reached for her hand. They’d done a lot of that since moving
here—reaching for the other’s hand.
“I dreamt of Tony
last night,” she said once he’d taken hold of it.
“Oh?”
“He was living in a
mansion, and had, like, a hundred wives. I was one of ‘em.”
He grinned.
“Really! And?”
“He tried to get a
leg over, and I let him. But just before I came he exploded—like literally! I
was thrown off him into the wall. I slid down it, but before I could scream, I
looked up. Tony’d blown up into thousands of quid! It was fallin’ all around
me! I was rollin’ around in it, happy as a clam, half-naked and wonderin’ where
the fuck my husband was. Then I realized you were me feckin’ husband, and I
woke up.”
She glanced at him
sheepishly. “Whaddya think?”
“About which part?”
he chuckled. “You bangin’ my good friend, or the cash?”
She shrugged.
“Either?”
“Was he any good?”
“Fair to midland.
Too much groaning. Not enough thrusting.”
Her hand was shaking
slightly. He gazed down at it, then at her.
“How bad?”
“Really bad.”
“Meeting?”
She groaned. “It’s
half past ten, Ro. I’m so tired I can barely stand. There may not even be a
meeting within walking distance.”
But there was, and
he knew it, even if she didn’t. An empty store not three blocks away was used
by the Church and had meetings scheduled around the clock, one every two hours.
They’d never been there. Another one would start at midnight, just an hour and
a half from now.
All this he shared
with her. He expected she’d be pissed, but she leaned forward and kissed him
instead. He held her face. He could feel just how close to the edge she was.
“I’d rather you
jump Tony than jump a bottle,” he told her when their lips parted. “So ...
meeting?”
“If I go, will you
jump me later?”
“I smell like I
rolled around in a grease pit, my darling bride, and I’m like you—so tired I’m
seeing double.”
She lifted and
dropped her eyebrows several times. “You can be the swarthy gas station
attendant and I can be the innocent young chatelaine whose tank needs filling
up.”
He chuckled and
kissed her again. “My little skank. What shall it be, regular unleaded or
Ronan’s special ultra-leaded?”
She smirked. “Need
you ask?”
“Raincheck?”
“Raincheck.”
Surprisingly, there were eight people, not including them,
that showed up at the midnight meeting.
The empty store
once housed a candy shoppe. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and peppermint, chocolate
and taffy, joy and innocence. All lost. Probably for many years now.
“Christ,” murmured Lee, interrupting his thoughts. She
leaned into him. “This is really fucking depressing. Look, Ronan—a soda
fountain! When was the last time you saw a real soda fountain?”
“I don’t know if
I’ve ever seen one,” he admitted, glancing at the beautiful, carved handles on
the dispenser and the tarnished brass everywhere, and the empty glass
containers here and there. The floor was wooden and the bar stools had round
black seats covered in a thin layer of dust from the last time they had been
wiped down, which was probably no sooner than several months ago. The ceiling
was trimmed in mahogany or something more expensive. He imagined children
sitting on the stools and spinning gleefully while others sipped root beer
floats from thick glass mugs.
Once light and
goodness flowed in through those big panes of glass, and kids flowed in through
that lovely door with the beautiful trimming, and the proprietor probably
hurried here and there fetching this treat or that and collecting change and
ringing it up on that antique cash register. All was good in the world.
But it wasn’t. For
he and the kids and the shoppe had come into an Iron Age of indifference,
malice, greed, and cruelty, and the sun had faded behind gathering, dark
clouds, and the kids huddled at home with parents who could no longer afford their
allowance, and the shop owner, saddened and embittered, had closed up one day
and walked away, and never came back.
The facilitator came
in, and they began. He was a priest, and offered a prayer for strength. The
group said “Amen,” and fell into silence. Sometimes that wait was
embarrassingly long, and as Ronan sat there, he thought it might happen again.
In the past, he’d tired of waiting, and so often broke the ice, even if he
really didn’t have anything to say.
A minute passed.
Then two.
Fuck it! he thought, thinking that he
wanted nothing more than to get home and into bed, and went to start, but Lee,
surprising him, beat him to the punch.
“Hello,” she said
softly, “my name is Lee, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hello, Lee,”
intoned the group. He held her hand and gave it a grateful squeeze.
The group waited.
Lee stared at the floor in front of her feet. He knew from experience that she
was gathering the courage to say something.
“It’s been ... two
hundred ...” She stopped and smiled briefly at him. “It’s been seventeen
squared days since my last drink.”
Everyone looked
confused. The priest, however, smiled.
“Seventeen periods
of seventeen days each,” he said. “What a helpful way of expressing it. Please,
Lee, go on. And forgive me for interrupting. I know I shouldn’t.”
“Seventeen,” she
said after a time. The word came out like it had been tortured from her. “I’m
really, really struggling right now. I hate my life ... but I love my husband
...”
She glanced at him.
Her eyes were wet. “It’s all shit ... all of it ... cockroaches and blood
stains ... meth stench from the bloke next door ... a shit job ... no light in
the day, no relief at night, and that dull fuckin’ ache in my chest like my
heart is dyin’ ... like if I don’t find a way out, it’ll wither, and then fuck
all, none of it will matter, none of it can
matter, it’s all shit ...”
That’s when Ronan
noticed him. He was sitting four seats to Lee’s right. He was a little person
maybe four feet tall. He had dark skin and wore what had to be tailored
clothing, the kind whose expense was obvious at first glance.
One didn’t see
little persons all that often. At least, that was Ronan’s experience.
Lee certainly had
the group’s attention. Her candor, he thought, had shocked them. So many times
these meetings devolved into measured sentimentality and repressed truths and,
in general, the utter unwillingness to get the real shit—the foul, toxic shit—out
into the open. Here Lee was going for broke.
She released his
hand and balled her fists and slammed them against her temples a couple of
times, then sniffled.
“Fuck it,” she
murmured to the floor. “Just ... fuck—it.”
The priest didn’t seem offended by her
language. No one did. The little person watched her intently. Ronan hadn’t seen
her act like this before, and was worried. He thought of interrupting her, but
then she stood abruptly and kicked her chair away. It clattered noisily against
the bar and collapsed to its side.
“Fuck it!” she
yelled.
Ronan didn’t know
what to do. This was something completely new. She wasn’t losing anything. If
anything, he thought, she was fighting furiously to gain something, to grab
something. He stared up at her and fought the urge to intervene and shush her
up.
“Fuck—it!” she yelled again, slamming
her fists against her hips with each word.
She turned and ran
to the bar and dragged her index finger over it and glared at the dust that
came up like a tiny contrail.
“This ... cannot
... cannot continue!” she said,
wiping her finger madly on her pant leg. “It just can’t!” She slammed her fist on the bar. Dust puffed up around her.
“I ... I can’t let it continue ... I can’t
...”
She marched to the
center of the group. “My name is Lee Sutton, and I am a goddamn alcoholic. But
I’m also a good person. I don’t
deserve any of this shit! I am a good
person! I am!”
She gazed up and
around herself, turning slowly in place. “I am
this candy shoppe. I am empty and full of dust and sadness ... and it must end.
It must! Must—must—must! I must stop
being sad and empty. I must stop
waiting for this fucked-up world to look at me and come to me and reopen me. I
must! I MUST!”
She raised her
hands above her head and turned again, then again, then again, spinning like a
tragic ballerina. It tore at Ronan, who watched, his mouth open.
“It won’t come to
me,” she cried to the ceiling. “It won’t.” She marched to the door and stared
into the damp dark outside. “This place brought
sunshine to itself. It brought
sweetness to itself. It brought
happiness to itself. It gave it back in a greater quantity than it received.
That’s how it works! That’s how it’s supposed
to work! That’s how it should always fucking work! It added to the universe. It expanded the universe. Even so, look
what happened to it. It’s unfair, and I won’t stand for it anymore!”
She slowly lowered
her arms and turned back to face the group. “Look! Please! Look at it!”
The group dutifully
glanced around themselves, then back at her.
“I drank on the
job. I was a nurse, and I drank on the job, and I got fired and my license
suspended. And you know what? They did the right thing. They did! I was so
drunk at work sometimes that I’d black out. I can’t remember whole weeks. And
here I was giving medications and checking vitals and watching over children
and infants ...”
She brought her
stare to him. “And I lied and lied and lied to the finest human being I’ve ever
known—my sweet, sweet husband. That’s the worst of it. He lost his job because
of me. He was the manager of one of Carlingford’s best inns. It was good money.
It came with some prestige, too. He lost it because I was drunk and in a ditch,
and he ignored the owner’s orders to stay at work and he hurried out to me,
even though I was okay. He went with me to the police station, and bailed me
out and took me home, where the rat-bastard coward of a boss had fired him—on
our feckin’ answer phone!”
She gazed back up
at the ceiling like she was praying for something to come and smash the life
out of her. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She sniffled.
Ronan glanced at
the rest of the group. They appeared to be in utter awe. It matched precisely
how he felt. His bride was experiencing a catharsis of some kind, and he wasn’t
just a little fearful where it might end up. The facilitator watched her with
compassion, enough to make an impression on him.
“We lost our home.
We live down the street in what can only charitably be described as a shithole.
You don’t want to hear what I call it when I’m in an un-charitable mood, which is most of the fucking time.”
She looked at him
again. “I’m sorry, Ronan. I’m really so sorry. I haven’t lied to you this time.
It really is seventeen squared days
since I’ve had a drink. But I’m desperate for one right now ... so fuckin’
desperate. The rubbing alcohol in the cabinet at home ... you have no idea ...
“The tunnel won’t
end, won’t shed even a little light, and I’m lost. I’m like this candy
store—I’m lost. I’m alone ... I feel like no light will ever come again. I know
what I’ve got to do, but I’ve no strength with which to do it! I want the light
again. I want my shoppe to open again. I want happiness to be mine again so I
can give it in double strength back.”
The three other
women in the group had wet faces. So did the little person. So did he.
She went to say
something more, but shook her head, grabbed her chair and brought it back. She plopped
resignedly down next to him, put her head in her hands, and sobbed. Ronan put
his arm around her and pulled her close. She didn’t seem to notice.
He didn’t remember
much of what happened after that. The facilitator rose and knelt in front of
her and spoke very softly to her, so softly that Ronan couldn’t hear what he
said.
The priest went and
sat back down. Several others spoke shortly afterward. All thanked Lee for her
outburst. The little person didn’t add anything.
And then it was
over. She and Ronan stood in a circle with the rest of them, clasping hands and
reciting the Lord’s Prayer; the meeting broke up and the sad little candy
shoppe was left empty and dark once more.
Lee didn’t speak on
the walk home. She disrobed once they got in, crawled into bed, and pulled the
covers up to her nose. He sat next to her. She reached for his hand.
Chapter Four
~~*~~
